LITMIR.BIZ

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my spectacles? I can never find the wretched things when I need them.’

      Having noticed the spectacles on the small table next to the wing chair, Joanna silently went to retrieve them. As a rule, she tried to stay out of her aunt’s way. Lady Cynthia was a forceful presence, who, like her late older brother, hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with her younger brother’s family until death had forced her to do so.

      Ironic, really, that her aunt, who had once been so openly disapproving of every aspect of William’s life, should now be heard to say that she was doing all she could to help her poor brother and niece cope with the unexpected changes thrust upon them.

      ‘Speaking of convenient,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘did you find whatever it was you were looking for?’

      ‘It was a book and, no, I did not,’ Joanna said, surprised her aunt would even remember that her niece had gone out for reasons other than to see to her own errands. ‘But I happened upon a gentleman who offered to lend me his copy.’

      ‘How thoughtful.’ Lady Cynthia gazed up at Joanna over the rim of her spectacles. ‘I take it you were acquainted with the gentleman?’

      ‘No, but he knew Papa,’ Joanna said, stretching the truth a little. ‘He will be coming to the lecture tomorrow evening.’

      Her aunt’s expression was blank. ‘Lecture?’

      ‘Yes. The one Papa is giving at the Apollo Club. I did tell you about it,’ Joanna said. ‘Just as I told you that I would be in attendance as well, given that many of my drawings will be on display.’

      Her aunt’s reaction was exactly what Joanna had been expecting. She took off her glasses and said with a sigh of frustration, ‘Joanna, I really cannot understand why you and your father persist in this ridiculous occupation. He is the Earl of Bonnington now and with that comes an obligation to his name and his position in society. Both of which are far more important than sitting around with a bunch of stodgy old men talking about Egypt.’

      ‘I understand your concern, Aunt,’ Joanna said as patiently as she could. ‘But you must understand that up until now, archaeology and the study of ancient Egypt have been the focus of my father’s life.’

      ‘Of course, because his position in the family made it necessary that he find something to do with his time,’ Lady Cynthia said, ‘though why he could not have gone into the church or purchased a commission is beyond me. Either of those occupations would have been far more suitable. However, with both Hubert and Trevor gone, your father is now the earl and he must accept the responsibilities inherent with the title. That includes seeing to your welfare and he must know that your chances of making a good match will not be improved by his conduct,’ Lady Cynthia said, the expression on her face leaving Joanna in no doubt as to her displeasure. ‘Circumstances demand that you marry well, and your bluestocking tendencies and your father’s willingness to encourage them will not improve your chances.’

      ‘I doubt it will be my conduct or my father’s that will have a negative impact on my eligibility, Aunt,’ Joanna was stung into replying. ‘I suspect much of society knows that Papa is heavily in debt as a result of his brother’s and nephew’s recklessness and if you would find fault with anyone, it seems to me it should be with those who are truly to blame for the predicament in which we now find ourselves!’

      It was a sad but true commentary on the state of their affairs. Joanna’s late uncle had gambled away a large part of the family’s fortune, and his son had squandered the rest on women and horses. Both had met with dramatic ends: her uncle from a fall off a cliff in a drunken stupor, and her cousin from a gunshot wound sustained during a duel with the angry husband of the woman with whom he had been having an affair.

      The sad result was that, while Joanna’s father had inherited a lofty title, there was precious little to go along with it. Bonnington Manor, a once-beautiful Elizabethan house, had been left to moulder in the English countryside, its stone walls overgrown with vegetation, its lush gardens choked with weeds. Even the town house in London was in desperate need of refurbishment. While both residences had come with a handful of loyal retainers, the list of unpaid bills that accompanied them was enough to make a king blush.

      Little wonder her father had not embraced his elevation to the peerage, Joanna reflected wryly. By necessity, one of his first duties was to find a way of raising enough money to carry out the extensive repairs required—and she was not so naïve as to believe that she did not play a role in that solution.

      ‘Well, no matter what the state of your father’s affairs, I do not intend to let you sit like a wallflower in a garden of roses,’ Lady Cynthia said. ‘You are a fine-looking girl. With luck, we will be able to attract a gentleman of means and to secure an offer of marriage, which we both know is your father’s only hope of salvaging the estate given his own stubborn refusal to marry again. Speaking of which, I hope you have not forgotten that we are going out this evening?’

      Joanna had, but given her aunt’s decidedly prickly mood, decided it would be wiser not to let on. ‘No, of course not.’

      ‘Good, because while I do not particularly care for Mrs Blough-Upton, it is important that you be seen as often as possible now that you are out of mourning. You will be one and twenty on your next birthday and I do not intend to allow this obsession with Egypt to ruin your chances for making a good marriage.’

      Sensing there was nothing to be gained by continuing the conversation, Joanna bid her aunt a polite good morning and then went upstairs to her room. She was well aware that her aunt’s only concern was to find her niece a rich husband. And that she could not understand why anyone would be so passionate about a country that was dirty, poverty stricken and populated by the most inhospitable people imaginable.

      Joanna thought the opinion a trifle unfair given that her aunt had never set foot in the country, but neither could she entirely find fault with the assessment. Egypt was dirty and poverty stricken and populated by some very questionable types—but there was so much to see and discover that the one negated the other. Tremendous finds had been made in the last few decades. Travellers were flocking to the banks of the Nile to see the wonders being discovered there, while explorers following in the footsteps of James Bruce and Giovanni Belzoni were setting out to uncover the tombs of long-dead kings, hoping to find in those burial chambers a cache of precious metals and jewels. And, more importantly, clues to deciphering the mysteries of the past.

      Joanna sincerely hoped her father would find such a tomb one day and that she would be at his side when he did. Together, they would see sights no English man or woman ever had and perhaps be able to write another chapter in the history of the world.

      It was hard to believe anyone wouldn’t view such a marvellous trip as the opportunity of a lifetime.

      Mr Laurence Bretton certainly had. His candid statements and earnest manner had left Joanna in no doubt as to his desire to visit Egypt and, despite the impropriety of his conduct, she was not sorry he had come up to her in the shop. Though he reminded her of one of her father’s students with his wire-rimmed spectacles, rumpled jacket and studious air, he was clearly an educated man. Intelligent, well spoken and dedicated to uncovering the mysteries of a bygone age, he was a far cry from the dandies and fops who were more concerned with the cut of their coats than with the secrets of the past. She was looking forward to seeing him again for that reason alone.

      The fact he had the most astonishing blue eyes and one of the most attractive smiles she had ever seen really had nothing at all to do with it.

      At half past nine that evening, Laurence stood in his dressing room as his valet ran a brush over the back and shoulders of his perfectly fitted black velvet coat. Though the cut of the habit à la française was at least a decade out of date, it was perfectly in keeping with the role he would be playing tonight. That of Valentine Lawe, the wildly successful playwright, whose most recent work, A Lady’s Choice, was once again playing to packed houses at the elegant Gryphon Theatre.

      ‘Laurence, are you almost ready to go?’ his sister enquired from the doorway.

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